On the porch the chimes shimmer
tingly
and in the stand of old pines down by
White Park Mill
a brushfire the city is slowly winning out over
smoulders in the twilight
like what like if I tried to explain it to somebody
like everything else around here I guess
like this trust you seem to have that nothing will harm you
an attitude you maintain even after suffering
two years with glaucoma
eyes blurred open
like a slave punished by his master
who has brushed them out with a burning
stick for no good reason
but unlike any slave you never complain
and can still perform your duties
barking at the mailman
chasing away birds or bird shadows what is the difference
you think
the shadows are just as mean
just as real as the other ones
and our widowed neighbor wonders how it is you can still go
for your morning
constitutional as she calls it
without somebody having to carry you like a baby
although that too is something
you’re prepared for going way back to your granddaddy’s time
like one day when they called his name
he simply wasn’t there like you like me one blind
one always in the dark
chasing shadows in the slanting smoke
together or apart
